


We Mustn't Fear Being Hurt (So We Can Shine)

by LavenderProse



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fluff, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Grand Prix Final, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 17:32:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8903950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavenderProse/pseuds/LavenderProse
Summary: Sometimes, dreams come true just how you envisioned them; thrilling in their perfection, stunning in their joyousness. Sometimes, dreams have a more...roundabout way of coming true.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this story before episode 11 aired, so there are some minor inconsistencies for that reason. It's not what I would considering non-canon-compliant by any means, but there are a few details involving the Grand Prix Final that seem unlikely given the events of episode 11.
> 
> Other than that, please enjoy!

When the dust on Barcelona and the Grand Prix has settled, the results are not unexpected, but just shocking enough to leave the people of several different nations gasping. The lack of a Viktor Nikiforov Assured Victory™ has sort of thrown the predictions on who will stand on the podium up into the air and nobody has quite known what to think the whole leadup to the Prix, but nobody can exactly say they're surprised by the results. The passion and meticulousness with which all six men skated stood as testament to the fact that they all knew they had a chance at the podium; that thanks to Viktor's sudden transition into coaching there was less of a skill gap there than there had been for years. In the end, though, it all comes down to numbers. Such is the nature of scored sports.

That being said, the numbers were undeniably close.

Winning bronze after a technically flawless short program and a high-difficulty free skate, Phichit Chulanont becomes the first Thai skater to place in a Grand Prix Final with a score of 290.78. Although the Olympics will not be for another year and a half, if he can repeat the same feat at the Worlds he stands a good chance to be the first figure skater to represent Thailand in Olympic history. At age twenty, it may be the only chance he has to do so—and the determination is clear on his face when the bronze medal is slid over his head.

After beating his own best scores for both the short and free, Katzuki Yuuri walks away from the 2016-2017 Grand Prix with the second-highest score in the history of men's singles and a silver medal around his neck. Combined, his programs earned him a score of 319.08—which, for all of fifteen minutes, _was_ the highest score in the history of men's singles.

That is, until Yuri Plisesky took the ice and earned himself both a combined score of 333.54, and the first gold medal of his senior career. Busting onto the seniors competitive scene with both a gold in the Prix and a world record-breaking score seems to have been enough to satisfy even Yuri—if only for the moment. As Yuri skates onto the ice to take his victory lap, Yuuri he sees a visible relaxation of his teenaged rival's shoulders and realizes that, maybe for the first time since he'd met him, he's is witnessing Yuri truly _relax_.

The rest of the scores are all within ten points of each other. Were it not for Yuri and Yuuri being so far away higher than any other man there, the competition would have been one of the closest in recent memory. Very few mistakes were made, very few jumps were two-footed, very few falls were had. In the end, it's Otabek in fourth, Christophe in fifth, and JJ in sixth—but again, each of them is separated from the others by single digits.

A small parade of people go through to shake their hands—first Yuri's, then Yuuri's, and then back to the other side of the podium to shake Phichit's. The flags are raised—Russia, Japan and, for the first time, Thailand—and the crowd is asked to please stand for the national anthem of Russia. Yuuri watches Yuri mouth along and looks across the ice, to where Viktor is doing the same thing. He feels tears gather in his eyes, but not because it's not the Japanese national anthem playing.

It's because even though Viktor is once again standing at a Grand Prix Victory Ceremony and mouthing along to the words of _Gosudarstvenny Gimn Rossiyskoy Federatsii_ , the only person he has eyes for is Katsuki Yuuri. He is singing through a smile and dimples, and Yuuri wants to kiss him, wants to wrap all of his limbs around that beautiful man, wants to meld into him until they are one person, hearts beating to a single rhythm. They only saw each other for a moment between the final results and the victory ceremony—a moment during which there was too much chaos going on around them to say much; a moment in which Viktor's eyes flashed and Yuuri suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to be _devoured_ ; an urge which reignites now.

What follows is the most exquisitely excruciating four minutes of his life, as one of the longest national anthems in competitive sports plays and Viktor more or less makes love to him with his eyes. Yuuri is sure people are wondering why he isn't looking up at the flags—especially the folks at home, whom have surely enjoyed closeup after closeup of what must be a very strange expression. He hopes his parents aren't looking at his glassy eyes and thinking he's a sore loser—or worse, that they haven't realized who he's staring at and why. He would never live down the shame of his mother's repetitive teasing.

They take the obligatory commemorative picture with their medals held up—Yuuri thinks it's the closest he's ever been to Yurio without it being for the express purpose of receiving bodily harm—and then the lights go down and some Spanish pop song proceeds to blast through the speakers. All three of them lap around the rink once more, Yuri graceful with his long strides and a wave worthy of a monarch; Phichit laughing and spinning; Yuuri trying to control the unchecked beating of his heart.

"Yuuri!" Phichit cries, making a point to circle around Yuuri as he bows to thank the crowd, "Yuuri, I'm so proud of you!"

Phichit holds out a hand and Yuuri grabs it—they go spinning around each other like children on a frozen lake. Yuuri throws his head back and lets out a whoop of laughter that comes out sounding desperate, like all of that pent up, frenetic energy is finally releasing him.

"And you!" Yuuri cries in return, tugging his friend's arm to bring him into an embrace. They both smell like sweat, and the gel is falling out of both their hair—but in this moment Yuuri doesn't think there is one person he'd have rather been on that podium beside.

There is another round of photos before they can get off the ice, and Yuuri spends the whole five minutes turning his head in search of silver hair and piercing eyes—Viktor seems to have sunk back into the hustle and bustle behind the boards, or else can't be seen because of the low lighting and purple shadows now cast all around the rink. In a few hours' time, he'll see a photo on the front page of most sports news websites which features Phichit grinning, Yuri simpering, and himself looking off in a completely different direction with an expression that a certain Swiss figure skater will call _lovelorn_.

When the photographers finally release them, Phichit delivers a firm push to Yuuri's back which sends him sliding several feet towards the boards. He laughs, "Go find him, Yuuri! For all our sakes!" and behind him, Yurio smirks in a way that says he might agree. Yuuri doesn't need to be told twice; off he skates, hiking himself up into the Kiss and Cry and then back through the coaching area, where he passes both Yakov and Celestino. He hasn't even bothered to put on his skate guards, and there's a distinct chance that he will fall flat on his face but Viktor must be around here somewhere—

His wrist is grabbed and it completely disrupts his forward momentum, causing him to spin into the grip lest he completely overbalance and, indeed, fall flat on his face. Another arm comes up to support him, his hands find a broad chest and his eyes find Viktor's, shimmering above him with something that might be called adoration.

"Viktor," he breathes, tightening his grip on Viktor's suit jacket. "I—I placed." He blushes, unsure of how to convey the gratitude and utter loyalty he holds for this man. As is his wont, be finally blurts the first thing that comes to mind. "I did it for you."

Viktor's intense gaze shatters into a grin, a look of joy so complete that Yuuri feels it in his very bones. Viktor lifts him up, holding him under the hips like it's nothing. Yuuri gasps, flings his legs around Viktor's waist for support—later they'll find out that his skate ripped a six inch long tear in Viktor's Armani suit and Yuuri will feel horrible about it. Viktor will laugh at the sight of it. I can replace the suit, he'll say, but my fiancé winning silver at the Grand Prix will be a moment I'll never have again.

("Because I'll be retiring?" Yuuri asks, a little bit unsure if Viktor is trying to imply that Yuuri will never again be as good as he is now. A part of him agrees, but by now he's used to a certain amount of unconditional belief from Viktor.

"Of course not," Viktor says. "Because next year, you'll win gold—and you'll be my _husband_.")

In the present, Viktor spins them around.

"My _solnishko_ ," Viktor breathes. "My Yuuri."

Yuuri presses their foreheads together and for once, the tears on his cheeks are not ones of sadness—and they are not all his own.

* * *

The banquet is not nearly as exciting as the previous year's, although they don't stay long and the clubbing they do afterwards could give Yuuri's 2015 meltdown a run for its money. Yuuri remembers everything up until they leave the banquet, and then it's all flashes—dimly-lit dance floors with bright blue and purple lights, the smell of Viktor's cologne, Chris shirtless yet again. Yurio somehow sneaks in and Otabek spends the night protecting him from anyone who shows untoward interest. Yuuri only notices this peripherally, what with Viktor plastered to his back, hands slid possessively into Yuuri's hip pockets. Feeling alive and sexy and young.

Viktor puts him to bed that night, carefully storing his medal in its box and packing it into a secure pocket of Yuuri's suitcase. They have one day left in Barcelona and then a five hour flight to Moscow where they have an eighteen-hour layover before boarding their flight to Tokyo. A third airplane ride will take them back to Kyushu, where they will board a train to Hasestu and, presumably, arrive at the onsen at about two o'clock in the morning.

Part of the reason why Yuuri went home so rarely during his years in Detroit was the fact that it was so hard to get there.

The following morning in Barcelona is beautiful, and Yuuri sleeps until noon. He blinks awake to the comforting scent of warm skin, yellow-gold afternoon sun filtering in through the curtains across the balcony door. Viktor is still in bed behind him, although Yuuri can tell from the way he moves that he likely isn't asleep. The moment Viktor realizes Yuuri is awake, he presses long kisses to Yuuri's neck. "Good morning, sleeping beauty."

"Morning," Yuuri whispers, still not completely awake. He arches his neck to give Viktor more access, lets the tingles from Viktor's lips travel all the way down to his toes. He arches his feet under the blankets, toes pressing against Viktor's legs. His lover puts out so much heat that it's almost uncomfortable, but he doesn't move. He never thought that he would be a person who enjoyed this sort of thing; skin pressed to skin, letting another person trace their touch over his body. He'd always thought himself too shy for it. But Viktor…

Viktor makes him shameless.

He takes Viktor's hand, presses it between his legs. He feels Viktor's gasp against his back, and his teeth sink into Yuuri's shoulder as he presses his thighs apart. It is then that Yuuri throws off the covers, rolls over and accepts Viktor into the cradle of his hips. He looks down, to Viktor's pale-pale abs bracketed by his darker thighs. Viktor braces himself on the wall with one hand and sets up a steady, rocking rhythm. Yuuri whispers his encouragement, _yes, yes—mm-hmm—ah—_

It's a strangely peaceful orgasm. It flutters Yuuri's eyes, it twitches his muscles against the sheets. He comes on a high-pitched whine, toe digging hard into Viktor's back and fingers tight in silver hair. Viktor presses his forehead to Yuuri's chest and comes with a grunt. Yuuri presses kisses to his thick hair, traces circles on his back with his index finger. He draws the Kanji for his own name. He writes Viktor's name in Cyrillic. He writes the only other thing he knows how to say in Cyrillic.

"I love you too," Viktor murmurs.

"How did you know what I was writing?"

Viktor turns his head to smile at Yuuri, cheek still pressed to his chest. "I had a hunch."

* * *

A week later, they're back in Hasetsu and ramping up for the Nationals. Viktor is determined to get Yuuri gold at Nationals, which will guarantee him a spot in the Four Continents. After winning silver and being the only Japanese man to make it to the Grand Prix, Yuuri is almost guaranteed a spot already, but there is the slightest chance that the Federation will choose not to send him due to his abysmal show at the Prix the year before.

Viktor doesn't seem worried. As soon as they've slept off the jetlag born from transitioning eight time zones, he and Yuuri are back at Ice Castle Hasetsu.

"I'm surprised they even gave you a medal with how sloppy your toe loops were," Viktor says, hands on hips as he stands in the center of the rink, turning slowly around as he watches Yuuri skate On Love: Eros in half-time. Viktor claims it's so he can pay each element individual attention, but Yuuri secretly thinks it's because Viktor is a slave driver who knows how much it makes Yuuri's thighs burn to hold out an Ina Bauer for almost twenty seconds. "Just because it's your best jump doesn't mean you can get away with half-assing them."

Yuuri doesn't honestly think he was half-assing _anything_ during the competition in Barcelona; if the numbers are anything to go by, it was the best program of his life. But it's Viktor's job to say things like this, and Yuuri has gotten better at separating Viktor-as-coach and Viktor-as-friend/lover/fiancé. It is, after all, what Viktor is being paid for.

Which reminds him—he stops dead coming out of a spread eagle, hands still poised in that seductive placement that's become second nature since his reinvention of the routine in Beijing, and says, "Oh," out loud.

"What?" Viktor asks, and Yuuri can tell he's a little irritated that he stopped—he's probably going to have to do this program at least twice more now.

"I forgot about your pay," Yuuri says, finally straightening his legs out of their spread. He skates to Victor until there's a more reasonable distance between them, one over which Yuuri doesn't feel the need to shout. There's something thrilling about the fact that he's allowed to stand just a little closer to Viktor now—not plastered against him by any means, although he doesn't think Viktor would object, but…just slightly closer. Over that anomalous centimeter that somehow defines the difference between _friendly_ and _intimate._

"My what?"

"Pay," Yuuri says, louder this time even though he's closer. They are the only two people in the entire rink and the cavernous space around them eats sound like it's starving for it.

"My pay?" Viktor says, as though he's never heard the word before. "What do you mean, my pay?"

"We're both speaking English, aren't we?" Yuuri chuckles. "The coaching fee I owe you now that I've won something." Because of his win in Barcelona, a few sponsors are making noises about deals with him—he and Viktor have been slowly combing through the information, although they both suspect that if it continues he'll have to invest in a manager, and possibly a publicist as well.

Viktor chuckles and shakes his head, murmuring something in Russian that Yuuri thinks might be affectionate. "Don't be ridiculous. You don't owe me anything."

"But I—"

" _Yuuri_ ," Viktor chuckles, toeing his pick into the ice to send himself sliding forward into Yuuri. He takes his hand and spins him. "You are going to by my _husband_. _Muzh moy_. What's yours will already be mine, and what's mine will already be yours."

"Oh," Yuuri says softly. "I guess…I guess I hadn't thought about it that way." He keeps in step with Viktor as they slowly slide across the rink, less propelling themselves and more just going along with their original momentum. They reach the boards, where Yuuri has placed his water bottle and glasses. As he removes the cap, he asks, "What do you want, then? You came…you came all the way to Japan to train me, and…"

"Hmm," Viktor drapes his index finger over his chin like he's genuinely considering his options. It gives Yuuri a chance to gulp down water and wipe the accumulated slush off his skates. When he stands back up, Viktor has a look of solemnity on his face that Yuuri knows is not faked. He pauses halfway through putting his glove back on, feeling his heart speed just slightly.

"Let's start with this," Viktor says, pushing away from the boards to stand facing Yuuri. The long lines of him are almost more than Yuuri can handle. Every once in awhile, he still can't believe that Viktor is standing here with him. That any time he wants, he can reach out and touch him. Kiss him. "In return for being your coach…I want to be the last thing you look at before you skate, and the first person you go to when you skate off."

Yuuri huffs out a nervous laugh. "I already do that."

Viktor cocks an eyebrow. "I wasn't done yet. Listen, _solnishko_. In return for coaching you, I want to—to learn everything I can about you. I want you to tell me everything you never thought you could tell another person. I want you to show me everything about Hasetsu that you love. I want to go to Detroit with you; I want you to come to St. Petersburg. I want to go back to Paris, and Sydney, and Helsinki and all the places I've been and loved so that I can share them with you. I want to sleep next to you every night for the rest of our lives. I want you sitting on the other side of the table when I blow out the candles on my ninetieth birthday cake. I want to retire with you, and watch you eat all the katsudon your heart desires, and watch you get chubby, and you'll watch me get chubby and someday, when we're both so old that we can't stand up anymore, I want to still be able to smile because you'll be there next to me."

"I—" Yuuri tries to speak but fails—he has to turn around and swipe his hand over his crumpling face.

"Shh." Viktor presses to his back, arms tight around Yuuri's chest. "It's alright. I have you."

Yuuri tilts his head back on a sob and reaches his hands up to Viktor's wrists, gripping them tight to anchor himself. Viktor presses sweet kisses to his shoulder, and Yuuri brings his hands to his lips, kisses them over and over as his tears wet Viktor's gloves. "I—I don't know why I'm—"

"You don't have to explain."

"It's just—I never thought, and sometimes I—for years—you're here and—and sometimes I don't think I—"

"You do," Viktor murmurs. He presses his cheek to Yuuri's back, where the concavity of his shoulder blades turns into his neck. He rocks them as Yuuri recovers himself. "You do."

* * *

At the end of December, Viktor and Yuuri go to Osaka together and Yuuri wins gold at the Nationals. A shot of Viktor kissing away Yuuri's tears of happiness in the Kiss and Cry goes viral almost as soon as it's taken. It's the first kiss that can be clearly classified as a kiss, and no doubt can be had. Especially when, during the press conference afterwards, a reporter asks Yuuri what his true relationship with his coach is and what comes out of his mouth is, "Viktor is the love of my life. We're to be married soon." The press erupts into chaos, but Yuuri sees Viktor nodding with approval.

The photo itself, as well as certain sound bites from the press conference, immediately becomes something of a talking point on social media in regards to the way the public perceives gay relationships versus the reality. It makes it onto television shows that have nothing to do with figure skating whatsoever and there are people in countries he's never even been to talking about his personal life like they know him. It's one of the main talking points in a TED talk about tenderness in homosexual culture. Yuuri receives an invitation to a Gay Pride exhibition match taking place in June.

Viktor also receives a call from Yurio telling him that it might be a good idea for him to not return to St. Petersburg anytime soon. Apparently, when his housekeeper went to water his plants on the Monday morning following the Kiss Seen Round The World, there were six different death threats sitting in his mailbox.

"I've gotten threats before," Viktor scoffs. Yuuri knows just enough Russian to get the gist of the conversation, but he can tell Viktor doesn't realize he's understanding as much as he is. "They used to send them to the rink all the time. You know yourself. It's a slow month if we don't get at least one bomb threat."

"They were sent to your house, Viktor." Yuuri can hear Yurio's entire side of the conversation as well; there's less than a foot of space between himself and Viktor on the bed. "These people obviously know where you live. It's serious this time." There's a pause and then, "Viktor, if you come back into the country right now…you could be arrested. It's best to just let it die down."

Yuuri sees Viktor's jaw tighten. He holds the phone in a white-knuckle grip and finally says, "Understood," before unceremoniously hanging up. He tosses the phone to the end of the bed and glares at it, hands folded in his lap, like it's the phone that's betrayed him and not his entire home country.

Folding his book and placing it in his lap, Yuuri looks up to the thunderous expression on Viktor's face. He reaches out and wraps his hand around Viktor's, rubs his knuckles with the pad of his thumb. He breathes in slowly, considering what to say. He has no idea what would be comforting to Viktor right now. Japan is not the most accepting country, but people are usually content to turn a blind eye. There is no risk of Yuuri being arrested for loving Viktor; Yuuri will never be prevented from returning home because he calls Viktor Nikiforov his husband.

"I'm sorry," Yuuri eventually says, although it sounds hollow even to his own ears. "I—I never wanted this to happen." He's not going to say he didn't think it was a possibility, though.

"Don't." Viktor's head whips around so quickly that Yuuri jumps. "Don't you _ever_ apologize to me for the bigotry of others." There are unfallen tears in his eyes, and his voice is thick.

Yuuri, suddenly a man possessed, takes Viktor's face between thumb and index finger. "This isn't your fault. There are sad people in this world, Vitya. Sad, _angry_ people who see two people like us who love each other and can't stand it. They call us disgusting, they think we should die. But they're the disgusting ones, and if they can think those things—they're already dead inside. I feel sorry for them, because they'll never love anyone as much as I love you."

Viktor presses a hand underneath his eye to catch a tear trailing down, and although he doesn't respond Yuuri at least knows that he's _listened_. He's angry for a few days, and Yuuri walks in on him having a shouting match over the phone with his landlord. It must result in either Viktor being evicted or the landlord agreeing to nullify his lease, because a week or so later Viktor's entire life shows up in boxes.

"To be fair," Viktor says as they unpack what can be unpacked—a large majority of it went to storage, "I'd mostly moved in here, anyway." It has none of his usual playfulness; it sounds strangely hollow.

Yuuri rests a folded shirt on his knees and reaches across to squeeze Viktor's hand.

"Would you happen to know how one begins the process of applying for Japanese citizenship?" Viktor asks, looking up from under his fringe.

"N-no," Yuuri stutters. "But…I'm sure we can find out."

For the first time in days, Viktor smiles.

* * *

Mari greets them coming home from the rink one day with an odd expression on her face. Yuuri immediately feels anxiety hit his stomach, although not as severe as when Makkachin was at the emergency vet—it's not that kind of expression. She looks almost amused as she watches them come in the door, divesting of shoes and scarves.

"The woman down the street has a dog," she says slowly once they are sitting across from her at table. She says it in English, which means it's not an emergency—if it were, she would be able to say it much more quickly in Japanese and leave Yuuri to translate for Viktor. "An Akita. She breeds them. Today, that dog had a litter. She came to the onsen because the puppies are not Akitas and she believes that you," she looks to Viktor, "Should take responsibility."

"Me?" Viktor grunts. "Why me?"

Mari smirks and takes out her phone, swipes open the photo album. She turns it around and slides it across the table to them. On the screen is a picture of three balls of fur, not terribly identifiable as any particular breed of dog at such a young age, but they have Makkachin's coloring.

"That rascal," Viktor mutters, with an expression on his face that isn't quite a smile. He tilts the phone for Yuuri to see and asks Mari, "What exactly does 'taking responsibility' entail?"

"I think she wants you to take them off her hands," Mari says. "Once they have been weaned, of course. They can't leave their mother for six weeks, but any profit she would have gotten from selling them is impossible now because they aren't purebreds." She takes her phone back from Yuuri once he's done mooning over the puppies and raises her eyebrow as she looks as the picture again. "I mean, they are pretty cute."

"But all three of them?" Yuuri says, looking to Viktor in askance. "What are we going to do with three dogs?" Yuuri feels bad enough as it is leaving Makkachin with his parents for extended periods of time; if he had to add three more decently-sized dogs to the mix, his parents would probably keel over just trying to keep up with them.

"Well." Viktor presses his finger to his chin, considering. "We could probably give one to Yuuko. The triplets have been begging her for a dog. Another one could go to…Minako?"

"Minako?" Yuuri mumbles doubtfully, knowing Minako to be a notorious cat person. "I don't know, Vitya. We might have to think about this."

Two months later, the thumbnail on one of the top stories on icenetwork.com is a picture of them taking Makkachin and the puppies for a walk. The caption reads: _Japanese skater Yuuri Katsuki and his Russian fiancé and coach Viktor Nikiforov take four dogs Maxim, Tatiana, Mao and Makkachin for an afternoon stroll in Hasetsu, Japan._ The picture looks to be taken from some distance away and from the side. Viktor holds the leashes for Makkachin and Maxim in one hand, whilst Yuuri holds Tatiana and Mao. The picture isn't taken at the right angle to show it, but they're holding hands. The article is mostly all speculation about what the rest of the season will bring for Yuuri, although it also comments on the controversy they arose in the wake of Japanese Nationals, and the fact that they haven't publically made a date for their wedding.

"Where did they even _get_ that picture?" Yuuri asks as he reads the article over Viktor's shoulder.

"I think you know," Viktor chuckles. "The triplets are still vengeful." They are both trying to eat dinner around the dozens of boxes stacked around their new living room. It's a large three-bedroom located five minutes from Ice Castle Hasetsu and just far enough from the beaten path that a wayward journalist would have a hard time finding it.

After all—having four dogs requires a lot of space.

* * *

"Have I ever told you that I adore you?" Viktor asks him when he walks in the door one day, soaking wet from a run in the rain and smelling like wet dog due to Tatiana's propensity to shake.

"I smell like wet dog," Yuuri reminds him, as if he couldn't already tell from the distance he's standing at. He lets Tatiana off her chain and she runs into the bedroom known as the dogs'—probably to wake her father and excite her siblings. He runs a wet hand through his hair, slicking it back from his face as he hangs the leash over the hook in the genkan. He can smell Viktor's cologne, and dinner cooking, and the underlying scent of the air freshener they use to keep the pet odor at bay. It's a smell that's started to feel like home.

Viktor's hands are on his waist before he's even done taking his shoes off. He wraps his arms around Yuuri and hooks his chin over his shoulder.

"What's brought this on?" Yuuri laughs, trailing his fingers down Viktor's forearms.

"I saw you coming in the door," Viktor murmurs, pressing his mouth to his neck. Yuuri inhales deeply. "And I thought about how glad I was to see you. How happy I am that we have each other to come home to. Every time I think I love you the most I can—you prove me wrong." He softly drifts his fingers up Yuuri's hip. "Dinner is in the oven and won't be done for another hour. Would you care to come make love to me?"

"Oh," Yuuri says softly. "I—yeah."

* * *

Yuuri flubs his quadrupal flip at the Four Continents—flubs it so hard that he hears something _snap_ and immediately goes down with the white-hot pain of it. He falls—or perhaps _eats shit_ would be the better way to put it—and skids into the boards, which he hits none-too-gently, headfirst. He blacks out for a moment. When he comes to, the music has already stopped and the medic is skidding towards him—Viktor behind, running across the ice like he's not wearing shoes with practically no traction.

If the medic is speaking to him in English, he can't tell—he's finding it hard to understand anything at the moment, and can only repeat _my leg, my leg_ over and over in Japanese. Viktor is allowed to pick him up and carry him off the ice, at which point he's placed on a gurney and wheeled first to the medical station and then, after ten minutes or so, into an ambulance. He doesn’t quite understand what's happening, although he knows he's being taken to a hospital—he fretfully tells Viktor, over and over, that he isn't sure his medical insurance will cover any of this. Viktor assures him that he'll pay, he'll pay.

He's triaged and put in a room in a Gangneung hospital that he doesn't know the name of. They give him something for pain, which helps to clear his head. Eventually, he's diagnosed with a mild concussion and a fracture to the fibula. The doctors seem to believe that his spectacularly bad landing resulted in his ankle buckling and his fibula twisting so far that it broke. They don't believe that surgery will be necessary—small mercies, Viktor reminds gently—but Yuuri knows what this means.

"That's it," he tells Viktor. The night has gone very dark, and he's been moved to an upper floor of the hospital. He stares down at his leg, which for now is wrapped in bandages. They will put the more permanent cast on him, and hopefully release him, in the morning. "That's—that's the end of my career. I…I won't make it to Worlds. This was my last chance, Viktor. I'm too old to get this far again."

"I won the Grand Prix at twenty-seven," Viktor tells him gently, trying _very_ hard not to make it sound like he's tooting his own horn. "And the Olympics at twenty-five, when I was a year older than you are now. It can be done, _solnishko._ "

Yuuri picks at the blanket over his legs. "Maybe by people named Viktor Nikiforov." When he looks up, Viktor is greeted with the all too familiar sight of tears welling behind glasses. "I'm too old, Viktor. I'm washed up. This was my last chance to make something of myself, to—to have _one good thing_ in my fucked career and now it's—"

"Yuuri, won't you under _stand_ me?" Viktor asks desperately, like the sight of Yuuri's despair makes him actually, physically hurt. "You're young. You have your whole _life_ left to live! You're twenty-four years old; God willing, you have another sixty or seventy years ahead of you. You haven't even seen _half_ of what you'll see in your life."

"You know as well as I do that twenty-four in the figure skating world might as well be sixty."

"Then _fuck_ the figure skating world."

Yuuri looks at him as though he's just blasphemed, never thinking he'd hear such words come out of Viktor Nikiforov's mouth. For a moment, Viktor's mouth stays fixed in that hard line, looking angry and frustrated although, Yuuri's relatively sure, not at Yuuri. Or, at least not directly. He looks down and takes Yuuri's hand, presses his mouth to Yuuri's ring. "I wish I could tell you that everything will be okay. If I could, I would—" he gently, so tenderly, presses his fingers to Yuuri's knee. "I would tap it, and it would be—poof, it would be healed, and you would be back on the ice tomorrow. But I can't. I can't do that for you, darling, and it breaks my heart." He shifts himself onto the bed, presses their foreheads together. He hasn't even taken off his scarf, although the heat in the hospital forced him to remove his coat several hours ago.

Silence draws out. Yuuri doesn't open his eyes, for fear of the sadness he will see in Viktor's; he keep them tight closed, face pressed so close to Viktor's that when Viktor breathes out, it feels as though Yuuri is taking the air from his lungs right back into his own.

"Yuuri?" Viktor whispers, what might be moments or hours later.

"Yes?" Yuuri whispers shakily. He loops a finger through Viktor's beltloop, like his finger is a mooring line and Viktor's beltloop is a bollard keeping the ship of his body from floating away.

"Do you know that I love you?" Viktor whispers. "And that I will always stay with you, no matter what? Do you know that I would stay with you even if it meant neither of us ever putting our feet on ice again?"

Yuuri feels his heart shoot into his throat. "I love you too," he croaks through the lump it creates. He may have been in love with Viktor Nikiforov since before he knew what romantic love really was, but it's never felt so prominent, so white-hot and almost unbearable, as it does now.

"I know, _solnishko_ ," Viktor whispers. "So please don't be afraid."

If only it were that simple, Yuuri wants to say.

* * *

Yuuri spends almost a week in bed once they get back to Hasetsu. He's under strict instructions not to put any weight on his leg, lest the break go from simple and relatively easy to heal to something much more serious. The skating websites are all abuzz about his 'career-ending fall.' Yuuri becomes so fed up with it, with people he's never even met predicting doomsday on his entire life, that he throws his phone across the room at one point. It isn't damaged thanks to Mao catching it in her mouth and bringing it back, and Yuuri isn't sure if he's glad or not.

Viktor, sitting against the headboard with a novel in his hands, laughs as Mao hops back on the bed with Yuuri's phone in her mouth. Yuuri doesn't want to be amused, but the deep boom of Viktor's baritone inspires something that could almost be called a Pavlovian response; he can't help but smile when he hears it.

"Ahh, thank you Mao—that was very nice of you to save Yuuri's phone. Ah-ah-ah, let it go. Good girl." Viktor tosses the phone onto Yuuri's ass, since Yuuri's head is currently at the opposite end of the bed from his. He says, "Your phone," as Yuuri squawks indignantly.

"I don't want it," Yuuri snaps, burying his face in a pillow like a child. "I wouldn't miss it if it fell into the ocean right now, along with my laptop, and our television, and every sports news reporter in the entire country. Do you think that if I hoped for it really hard, that _I'd_ just kind of slide into the sea? A kid in primary school once told me that the entire island of Kyushu would tip over. I'm kind of wishing for that to happen at this point."

"Don't you think you're being a little dramatic?" Viktor says, poking his toe into the meat of Yuuri's ass over and over again, in a move vaguely reminiscent of another Russian. "You only have a few more days left of bedrest before they put you in a walking cast. You'll be allowed to skate again before summer, and then we can start training for next season."

"Viktor," Yuuri sighs, not wanting to rehash the same argument they've had no less than six times since returning home to Japan.

"Yuuri," Viktor groans in return, shuffling around on the bed until he's laying between Yuuri's legs, head cradled in the small of Yuuri's back. Yuuri can feel the scritch of barely-there stubble where his shirt has ridden up. Viktor moves cold hands underneath Yuuri's body to palm his stomach; Yuuri yelps just a little. Into his back, Viktor murmurs, "Do you honestly _want_ to retire? Because I'll not keep you from it if that's what you want to do."

Yuuri sighs. "I don't _want_ to retire, no. I want to keep skating. I love it. But I don't want to look like an old, washed-up idiot who doesn't know when to quit. And now that I've had a major injury, it'll be that much harder for me to get back to where I was before."

Viktor bites him. Yuuri can feel it through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, the only thing he's currently wearing aside from one of Viktor's old grey practice shirts. It's more startling than painful, but he screams in surprise and yells, "Viktor! What the fuck was that for?!" He's not even sure what language it comes out in.

"Say you're old one more time, Katsuki," Viktor growls. "Say it, and see what I do."

Yuuri halfheartedly tries to struggle away, but Viktor crawls up his body until Yuuri can feel his knees snug against his hips, his breath on the back of his neck. "Vik- _tor_!" he whines like a particularly petulant child. "You know what I mean! I know that to normal people I'm still really young but all anyone's going to think if I do another season is that I'm—"

He doesn't even get the chance to say the word this time; Viktor's teeth sink into his shoulder and stall the rest of his sentence in this throat. Again, it isn't hard enough to hurt; Viktor's being more playful than anything, although the motivations behind his actions are serious. Yuuri is starting to realize that it really bothers Viktor when he speaks about himself in any negative context, although it's hard to stop after a lifetime of doing it; after spending so long being convinced that it's what other people thought of him, too.

It's surprising, and hard enough to sting just a little, and Yuuri gasps at the wave of sudden pleasure that rips down his spine. Viktor has, accidentally or not, managed to hit one of the most erogenous zones on his entire body. His hand snaps backwards to grip Viktor's knee; his other hand reflexively grabs a fistful of the sheets.

"Oh, come now," Viktor mutters as he pulls away. "It didn't hurt that much, Yuuri."

"No," Yuuri breathes. "It didn't." Using his good leg for leverage, he turns himself over. Viktor is beautiful from all angles, but Yuuri has to say that he finds this one, Viktor hovering over him with all of that silver hair hanging down into his eyes, to be a particularly pleasing one. He leans his head to the side. "Do it again, Vitya."

Viktor doesn't have to be asked twice. He presses his mouth back down, hands going under Yuuri's sweatpants to press cold hands to warm skin, pulling them down until they catch underneath Yuuri's hipbones. His mouth starts a journey down Yuuri's chest, over his belly. Viktor sucks faint red marks onto his right hipbone.

"We're not done talking about this," Viktor tells him, humid breath coasting over coarse and dark hair. He presses his head between Yuuri's legs, licks the tendon in this inner thigh.

"Mmno-o, of course not," Yuuri whimpers. His chest heaves, he tosses his head back, and his hand fists into Viktor's hair. "I wouldn't—wouldn't dream of it!"

* * *

Yuri Plisesky takes bronze in the worlds, and nobody is exactly surprised. He'll likely go to the Olympics with a performance like that, and Yuuri imagines that he'll place there, too, considering the year he'll have to perfect his routine in that time. The Russians have had domination of the male figure skating program for years thanks to Viktor, and it's a streak that doesn't look to be ending soon with the likes of Yurio rising into the spot Viktor vacated.

What surprises Yuuri is the boy himself turning up on his doorstep about two weeks after he and Viktor watched Yurio frantically skate his way onto the podium yet again from their cozy little sofa in Hasetsu. Yuuri honestly hadn't expected to see Yurio in Japan again, unless business required it. Lo and behold, here he is—standing in front of the house Yuuri now shares with his fiancé, almost a year to the day after two crazy Russians stepped into Yuuri's life and changed it forever.

" _Privet, porosenok_ ," Yurio says, with a suitcase handle in his hand and an animal carrier at his feet. From the unhappy growling coming from within, Yuuri is relatively certain that it's a cat.

"Yurio," Yuuri says, too surprised to address the fact that he knows exactly what Yurio just said, although Yurio clearly thinks he doesn't. He uses his legs to combat the dogs, whom are all far too interested in Yurio's cat. He lets Makkachin through, mostly because he's more interested in greeting Yurio than the cat, but also because Yuuri only just got his cast removed and Makkachin is a little too big to keep at bay with legs alone.

Yurio eyes the two puppies with badly concealed curiosity. "What are those?"

"Dogs, as I'm sure you can tell," Yuuri says, and Yurio rolls his eyes. "They're our puppies. They're not very well trained, though; Viktor and I haven't really had the time to try teaching them anything. Tatiana! Mao! _Hvatit_!" The puppies draw back slightly, enough that Yuuri feels confident in stopping what was essentially a leg-wrestling match in which he was horribly outmatched. "They only listen when you yell in Russian. There's actually one more, but he's out running with Viktor."

"Oh," Yurio says, patting Makkachin's head and trying to sound disinterested. "I didn't realize he wasn't here."

"He'll be back soon," Yuuri assures, and there's a very awkward moment where he and Yurio stand in silence, each waiting for the other to say something. Yurio has grown since Yuuri last saw him; such is the nature of teenage boys. He's also let his hair get longer. Yuuri suspects that Yurio will be somewhat similar to Viktor in size and shape when all is done, although the delicacies of his features show no signs of giving way to more chiseled angles. It's likely that the androgyny of Russia's punk will stay with him through his life.

Yuuri, having become acquainted enough with Yurio to assume perhaps a few things about him, suspects that Yurio may be glad of this.

"Please come in," Yuuri says, eventually realizing that he's being horribly rude. His mother would probably already be hitting him with a slipper if she knew how long he'd let a guest—one who'd clearly just come a long way—stand on his doorstep. He steps to the side and ensures that the dogs are out of the way so that Yurio can shuffle through the door, cat still growling inside its box. "You can, um, let your cat out in the guest bedroom, if you want. Do you want something to eat or drink?"

"That'd be fine," Yurio says vaguely, as he takes luggage and animal down the hall. There's something off about him, something that Yuuri picks up on but can't quite pinpoint. He lets his one-time rival continue into his house unmonitored, veering into the kitchen to fix him a bowl of last night's leftovers and a pot of tea.

As he waits for the kettle to boil, he texts Viktor: _Yurio just showed up out of nowhere._

 _Yuratchka_? Viktor texts back. The man has a tendency towards one-word replies that isn't corrupted even by surprise.

_Yes. He's acting weird. Don't know what to do._

It takes several minutes, but Yuuri's phone finally pings as he's pouring the tea. Viktor has texted _Be back soon_ , and Yuuri feels a small amount of relief ease his heart.

* * *

Viktor brings spring chill and sweetness in with him when he comes in the door. Maxim runs through the house to herald his return, bounding first into the kitchen and then into the front bedroom. Viktor follows behind at a more sedate pace, greeting Yuri with a peck at the sink.

"Did he say why he's here?" Viktor asks, joining Yuuri in his sink-leaning, their hips brushing together in a companionable way that settles warmth into Yuuri's heart.

"No," Yuuri murmurs into the rim of his tea. "He barely said anything. He came in the door, called me a pig, and went into the guest room when I told him you weren't here. I gave him some tea and food, but he hasn't come out."

"Not exactly unusual behavior for Yura," Viktor muses, almost to himself.

"I don't know, something's just off." He sets his teacup down on the sink and turns to Viktor, pressing a hand to his arm. "Maybe you can talk to him, Vitya. He likes you better than me. Maybe he'll…I don't know, open up to you." He's uncomfortably aware that they're talking about Yurio less like a friend and more like their problematic teenage son. He supposes that Viktor would be a more obvious choice as a parental influence on the boy than himself—and that, with twelve years between them, Yurio may even unconsciously think of Viktor as more of an authority figure than an equal. It's hard to say, though, with Yurio.

"I'll try," Viktor says. "But I can't make any promises." He pushes away from the counter and heads towards the guest room. He hears the door creak open, then an alarmingly loud hiss. Viktor says, "Oh, you brought Koroleva," in a tone that doesn't exactly sound thrilled. Viktor is a dog person if there ever was one; Yuuri has to laugh.

Viktor is in the guest bedroom for forty-five minutes. Yuuri tries to distract himself from his desperate curiosity by scrolling through Instagram. He receives a few snaps from Phichit, who's currently being ridden hard and put away wet on a daily basis by Celestino. There are pictures up on social media of JJ Leroy's wedding; Yuuri looks through those for a moment. Eventually, though, he's too anxious to do anything but sit there and stare down the hallway with Makkachin nosing at his hip.

Finally, his fiancé reemerges, and Yuuri is immediately regurgitating all the questions he's kept cooped inside for almost an hour.

"Did he tell you why he's here?" Yuuri asks, almost tipping his chair over in his rush to Viktor's side. "Is he okay? Does he need help? Did he have a fight with Yakov? Or Lilia?"

"Probably both," Viktor says, rubbing the back of his neck. He sighs and tilts his face towards the ceiling. Yuuri can see him worry the inside of his cheek for a moment. "But I don't know if that's why he's here. I think he—this is going to sound insane, but I think he missed us. Yura isn't good at…expressing his feelings. He comes by it honestly; you probably know by now that few Russian men are as forthright as I am with the more tender emotions."

The corner of Yuuri's lips rises reflexively. "Yes."

"He used to do this often," Viktor says contemplatively, his unfocused eyes looking at something beyond the kitchen window. "Showing up out of the blue. Granted, we both lived in St. Petersburg at the time so it was easier for him to accomplish, but this isn't exactly a new thing. He's—he gets lonely easily, I think. He doesn't have many friends, and none who are his age. He spends all day in the rink, and then he goes home to more Yakov and Lilia—who are fine people, but not the most giving or affectionate. Not what a young man needs to become well-rounded. His grandfather lives in Moscow and can't afford to relocate to St. Petersburg for a variety of reasons. His parents are…" Viktor sighs, rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "I'm not sure, frankly. Just…out of the picture. It's more common than you'd think, where we're from. Before he moved in with Lilia last year, he was living in a dorm."

"Oh," Yuuri whispers after a moment, suddenly feeling intensely grateful for his loud, warm little family. "I—I never knew."

"How would you? He doesn't talk about this to anyone. It's taken me years to get all of this out of him, and I still barely know anything." He drags a hand down his face, rubs his eyes. "It's best to just let him stay until he gets—whatever it is out of his system. I'll call Yakov; knowing Yuri, he didn't bother to tell anyone where he was going. Yakov shouldn't care too much. The season is over, and he can skate here. We'll keep him in shape until he goes back to Russia." Viktor drops a kiss onto Yuuri's head and ventures into the bedroom, where he closes the door so as not to be overheard on the phone.

Yuuri's already taken five steps towards the back bedroom before he thinks better of it and reroutes to the fridge to begin preparations on dinner. Better to let Yurio come to them than the other way around.

* * *

That night, Yuuri's curiosity gets the better of him. He swings a leg over to the other side of Viktor's body and settles himself on Viktor's hips, presses his palms to Viktor's abs, tucks his feet under Viktor's thighs. Viktor tilts his head in wordless askance, his silver hair fanning on the pillow, his hand tracing over Yuuri's back and rucking up one of his own practice shirts.

"Tell me about your family?" Yuuri says softly. "I…I feel like a horrible fiancé. You've met my whole family and I've just realized that I don't even know if you have one." Despite his fanatical dedication to all things Viktor in his adolescence, there was never any real information to be found about Viktor's family. Articles about Viktor when he was younger tended to focus on his favorite music, what he liked to do on the weekends. As he matured, so did the articles about him; they focused much more closely on the sport, and those which had to do with his personal life tended to be exclusively dedicated to speculation about his lovelife. The only article that Yuri can even vaguely remember being about Viktor's homelife was the one that inspired him to adopt Vicchan, and he can't remember if it mentioned Viktor's parents or not.

"That's because I don't," Viktor murmurs. "Not really, I don't." He says it with ease, as though he's saying that he doesn't like broccoli instead of announcing that he has no significant family relations to speak of.

Yuuri, however, feels like he's been winded.

"Oh," he breathes. "I see."

"Don't feel bad, darling," Viktor murmurs, hand tracing a soothing oval on Yuuri's hip. A layer of fat is starting to form there, something that Yuuri is deeply self-conscious of, but Viktor doesn't comment on it even as he more or less kneads it. "My father was…never there. I was born during the fall of the Soviet Union; everything was very chaotic. People were fleeing the country, packing up and moving without telling anyone. My mother never said—she never even said his _name_ out loud to me unless it was to shout at me using my patronymic—but I had a feeling that he had done something like that. My mother was…a kind woman, but not very strong-hearted. Post-soviet life didn't treat her well. We were all poor, we were all hungry, we were all scared. I started skating so that I didn't have to think about all of it. My mother couldn't afford formal classes, but I would go to the rink and watch other skaters. I taught myself in the early days." Viktor tilts his head, staring at the ceiling in an almost contemplative manner.

"Yakov took notice not too long after that. He has a very good eye for natural talent, Yakov does. He'd already had several winning skaters to his name at that point, and he was still a relatively young man. I think he was looking for someone whom he could…shape from a young age. Someone malleable and untouched, who he could shape into the perfect Yakov Feltsman skating machine." Viktor looks back to Yuuri's eyes, winks. "I was the perfect candidate."

Yuuri smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm sure you were." He brushes his fingers over Viktor's cheek, bounces his toes off the firm underside of Viktor's thighs. "And your mother? What happened to her?"

Viktor sighs and closes his eyes. "She died. The year before I made my senior debut, she—she was never very healthy, and she developed a case of pneumonia that she didn't tell anyone about, and one day she…collapsed." Yuuri can hear the wet sound of Viktor swallowing harshly, knows that it's a sign of Viktor holding back emotion. "We buried her four days before my last junior world championships."

Yuuri feels his lip wobble despite himself. "Viktor, I'm so sorry."

"Oh, Yuuri, don't be," Viktor murmurs. "It's nothing you can help, and I've cried about it enough for ten lifetimes. The world is an unfair place, _lyubov moy._ Some very bad things have happened to me, but many very _good_ things have also happened. I got tired of crying, Yuuri. Please don't cry for me."

"I'll try," Yuuri sniffs, bending to press his face against Viktor's neck. He presses soft and chaste kisses there. "I just—to not have a family. I'm sorry, it just makes me…"

"But I do now," Viktor murmurs. "I have you, and Hiroko and Toshiya, and Mari, and the dogs. The Nishigoris. Even Yakov and Yurio. We're blessed, Yuuri. Truly, we are."

Yuuri thinks about the cross that Viktor carries in his pocket, good luck charms, gold rings.

* * *

Yurio stays for a week. And then two. And then three, and it gets to the point where Yuuri wonders if he's ever going to _leave_. They go to the rink every day, save for Viktor-mandated rest days which they almost always spend either zonked out at home or leisurely walking the dogs through the streets of Hasetsu. Yuuri skates slow and easy while, in the center of the rink, Viktor runs Yurio through his paces. They've begun the choreography for next season's short program, and although Yakov has been in contact it's definitely more of a collaboration between Viktor and Yurio.

Yuuri finds himself paused for long moments, staring at Viktor and Yurio from the boards or the far side of the rink. Thinking too much. There is a slight, dull pain in his leg that the doctors say may recur for the rest of his life; it isn't uncommon with breaks of that nature. Later in life, much later in life, he may need to walk with a cane. For right now, it doesn't even bother him when he's walking, and only a little bit when he's been running or skating for a long time.

But he isn't an idiot. It's an injury. A permanent one that will keep him from competing at the same level as those who haven't yet had an injury. Like JJ, like Phichit.

Like Yurio.

He hasn't told Viktor yet.

"Yuuri," Viktor calls, sounding decidedly winded as he and Yurio glide to a stop after going over one particular step sequence for the fifth time this afternoon. "Come tell us what you think about this step sequence. Yura—do the step sequence for Yuuri, I want his opinion."

Yurio makes a sound with his teeth that echoes throughout the rink, but obeys. Yuuri watches, fingers curved over his chin in a habit he might have stolen from Viktor. The step sequence takes Yurio in a wide arch around the rink, ending with a slide into a inside spread eagle and a spin. Yuuri tilts his head to the side, taps his fingers against his leg.

"What do you think?" Viktor asks, now breathing more or less normally. He's standing close, and Yuuri can feel the _heat_ he's giving off. He and Yurio have been at it for hours. "He's doing it brilliantly, it's just…"

"It was good," Yuuri says, nodding faintly. "He's very good, as you know. You just have to perfect it."

Viktor swivels himself around to Yuuri's front, bowing over him like some sort of predatory bird. "Yuuri," he drawls, raising an eyebrow. "When I ask for your opinion, it means I want your opinion—not meaningless platitudes to save my dignity. Your step sequences are always gorgeous, which is why I'm asking you your input on Yurio's." He gestures to said teenager, who's gulping down water against the boards and still managing to look huffy while he does it.

"I—" Yuuri sighs, tilts his head back. "It's a fine step sequence."

"But?"

"But everything he's doing with his arms is making him look like a deranged ostrich."

He hears Yurio spit out his water as Viktor grips his belly in hilarity.

"What?!" Yurio shrieks, and Yuuri hears the scraping of his skates. "Who are you calling a deranged ostrich? The Japanese piggy is calling me an _OSTRICH?_ "

"All of your fluidity is in your legs," Yuuri tells him matter-of-factly, turning around to meet Yurio as he skates towards him like a man possessed. He stops with his toe pick less than five inches from Yuuri's, but Yuuri stands his ground. "Which means half of your body is telling a whole other story from your other half. You'll lose presentation points for something like that."

"Oh? And what would _you_ do about that?" Yurio snaps. The inches he's grown over the spring are enough to bring him very close to at height with Yuuri. It's much easier for him to get in Yuuri's face this time around, but Yuuri doesn't feel nearly so intimidated by Yurio as he once was. Viktor and Yurio may know all there is to know about attaining ridiculously high technical feats, but the presentation is where Yuuri shines; he refuses to be thrust out of his element by Yurio's temper tantrum.

"Come to the ballet studio with me tomorrow and I'll show you," Yuuri tells him, sinking his hands into his jacket pockets.

"I already _have_ a ballet instructor," Yurio grumbles, though with less venom than before. He's deflating, as Yuuri knew he would. Yurio is all bark and no bite, and Yuuri is beginning to realize that they have more in common than he once thought. If one replaced all of Yurio's temper tantrums with episodes of crippling anxiety, you might get a close approximation of Yuuri at age sixteen.

They react to things in different ways, but not necessarily for different reasons.

"Lilia Baranovskaya isn't here, Yurio," Yuuri says. "And I doubt she's taught you to move in the ways I've learned." He glances over his shoulder at Viktor, just to make sure that he isn't saying anything his fiancé might disapprove of. On the contrary, Viktor has a heavy glint of approval in his eye—and a spark of something else, something that says he knows exactly how Yuuri can _move_.

"Fine," Yurio snaps, and skates away to execute furious triple axels at the other end of the rink.

"That was good," Viktor says, hand on Yuri's back. "Yurio needs to be knocked down a few pegs every once in awhile. Yakov is good at it, but it's hard for me to tell him off—I was the exact same way when I was his age."

Yuuri smiles softly and comes to a decision in that moment, privately with himself. He turns to Viktor and presses his palms to Viktor's chest, feeling his warmth and the dampness of sweat. He wonders how it's possible to love another person so much that it both aches and soothes. "I've got something I need to tell you," he says, gently so as not to concern Viktor. "Nothing bad, but we need to talk when we get home. Is that okay?"

"Sure," Viktor says, lips curling into that one particular bemused smile that says _I don't know what's going on_. Yuuri almost laughs because it's so reminiscent of Viktor's first weeks in Japan, when he understood perhaps one percent of what was being said to him at any time. Instead of laughing, he kisses Viktor on the cheek.

"Oi! Geezers!" Yurio screams from thirty feet away. "Get out of here with that shit! You're gonna melt the ice!"

* * *

When Yuuri finally has Viktor alone that night, once Yurio has gone to bed and the dogs have been put in the room for the night, he sits him down at the kitchen table and grips his hands, looks into those beautiful blue eyes and says, "You need to take Yurio on as your skater."

Viktor's hands convulse against his. His eyes widen and an incredulous expression crawls onto his face. " _What_?"

"My leg isn't going to get any better than it is now," Yuuri tells him. "It—it didn't heal right. I didn't want to tell you because I was afraid—well, I don't know what I was afraid of. But the fibula is a fragile bone, and sometimes even a clean break like mine isn't the same once it's healed. I can still skate and walk and run fine, but it hurts sometimes—and if I push myself I could do a lot of damage. It's done, Viktor. We knew this would happen eventually."

" _Dorogoy_ ," Viktor mumbles, looking like he might start to cry.

"But it's okay," Yuuri says, rushing straight into the pros of what he's suggesting. If he can just get Viktor to see his side of things before he lets outright rejection settle into his mind, he's sure Viktor will come around to his way of thinking. "It'll all work out because—because now you can take Yurio on. He needs someone to challenge him, and you need someone that you can push. Yakov only has a few good years left in him and he still has Georgi and Mila to think about. Yurio is going to need someone for at least the next eight years, maybe more like ten or twelve if he's anything like you, and you're young enough to take on the responsibility. He _wants_ you to be his coach, Viktor. He has ever since you decided to leave competition and now there's no reason why you can't."

"And what about you?" Viktor demands, looking angrier than Yuuri honestly thought he would. "What about the life we've only just started building together? What do you want me to do, go back to Russia? Go back to St. Petersburg and leave you and the dogs here? Or maybe you'll come with me and we'll spend our days screaming inside because we're not allowed to _touch_ each other without fear of being arrested and deported?"

"We'll go to America then," Yuuri says. "Yurio won't be the first athlete to train outside of his home country. I did it for years. Or maybe—maybe Yurio will come to Japan. There are a million different ways to do it, Viktor. But I think it's something you should seriously consider. I think it's what will make you happiest, and I think it's what Yurio needs."

"And what about what makes you happy?" Viktor asks, gripping Yuuri's hands so tightly that he almost has to lean across the table. "Yuuri, I wouldn't be able to stand myself if I did this and you were left at home to mope with the dogs day after day.

"Oh, I won't be at home all day," Yuuri says, a smirk falling onto his lips. "Without Lilia around, someone's going to need to put that punk in his place—and he'll need a movement instructor. Minako and I could share the responsibility, if you don't think I'd be good enough on my own. I'm no Lilia Baranovskaya, but I have been doing dance since I was six—and Minako won the Benois de la Danse."

"I have no doubt that you would be a perfect movement coach for him," Viktor says, almost automatically. Like his words are more of a reflex than an intelligent response. Once he thinks about what he's said, a look of reluctant contemplation falls onto his face. "I'd have to think about it, Yuuri. Yakov might be hard to convince, and Yurio might not even want me to be his coach."

"He does," Yuuri says confidently. "He sulked all last summer after I won the Onsen on Ice." He squeezes Viktor's hands. "This isn't an end, Vitya. It's a new beginning. One we'll go into together."

"Together," Viktor echoes softly.

* * *

"Welcome back to NBC's coverage of the Olympic Opening Ceremonies. It's a bitterly cold night here in Pyeongchang, but inside the Olympic stadium it's getting toasty as more and more of our athletes and coaches flood into the stadium. Right now you're seeing a replay of the nations which marched during the commercial break; those nations being Portugal and Romania. Entering the arena now is Russia.

"Russia is the most represented nation at this year's Olympics, with over 400 athletes and coaches entering the stadium right now. Their flagbearer is fifteen-year-old Katya Sokovskaya, who everyone is going to be paying a lot of attention to come Thursday when the slalom kicks off. Katya has been training rigorously with her coach, former world champion and Olympic bronze medalist Alexandra Vasiliev, in Canada in preparation for taking Olympic gold here in Pyeongchang.

"Another athlete whom Russia and perhaps even the world is watching is seventeen-year-old Yuri Plisetsky. Yuri has placed in every event he's competed in since entering the seniors division of male figure skating in late 2016—and he's expected to continue that streak at these Olympic games. You can see Plisetsky entering the stadium now—accompanied by his coaches, two-time Olympic gold medalist Viktor Nikiforov and former Japanese national figure skating champion Yuuri Katsuki.

"There was some controversy over whether Plisesky would choose to represent Russia in these games. Plisesky has lived and trained in Japan since May of last year, and it was thought that he may choose to compete as a member of the Independent Olympians this year. Coaches Nikiforov and Katsuki are outspoken opponents of Russia's anti-LGBT legislation, which has garnered them disfavor in a country where Nikiforov was once considered a national treasure. Even in the face of serious backlash from Nikiforov's home country, he and Katsuki have made no secret of their partnership—and even here, as they march under the flag of Russia, they do so arm-in-arm.

Continuing on with the parade, we have the country of Rwanda marching in for the first time in Winter Olympic history…"

* * *

Yuuri thought that the loudest thing he'd ever experienced was the Olympics Opening Ceremony.

Then, he experienced the Olympics closing ceremony.

He almost feels the urge to cover his ears as he surges along with the rest of the athletes and coaches flooding the stadium floor—a veritable flood of humanity all yelling in different languages, laughing, singing along to the song pumping at ear-splitting volume through the stadium speakers. Yurio disappeared some time ago—Yuuri doesn't know where in the crowd he is, but he's already posting pictures of himself and Otabek with the screaming Olympic Stadium in the background.

"Well, Yuratchka is having fun!" he yells at Viktor, holding up one of the pictures for Viktor's examination—Yurio grinning, long hair around his shoulders and gold medal around his neck.

"What?" Viktor yells back.

"Yuri is having a good time!" Yuuri steps closer by several inches, shows Viktor the photo. "It's going to take us hours to find him after this."

"He's seventeen," Viktor laughs. "Let him enjoy himself. Otabek will keep him safe." Over the months that Viktor and Yurio have been training, they've stopped actively trying to resist talking about Yurio as though he's their son. At this point, Yuuri figures, he's more similar to their son than anything else, and Viktor is all about Found Family.

Wrapping a an arm around him, Viktor says, "And so ends your first Olympics. Was it all you hoped it would be?"

"It was," Yuuri murmurs after a moment, pulling Viktor down, their noses sliding together. He thinks about watching Yurio win gold and knowing it was with his help that he got there; watching Phichit win silver and knowing that his friend was making history. He thinks about how, at age twenty-five, he may finally be where he belongs.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get you here to compete," Viktor says. "Wanted to so badly—I wanted to see you on that podium, _solnishko_."

"That doesn't matter," Yuuri says, closing his eyes and tilting his head. "What matters is that I'm here, with you. That means more to me than ten gold medals."

Katsuki Yuuri kisses Viktor Nikiforov at the Olympic Closing Ceremonies with what feels like half the entire world watching. He's not going to deny that it was one of his long time fantasies.

Sometimes, Yuuri muses, dreams really do come true.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: Due to some comments I've received, I have felt the need to change a few things at the end of this story. Yurio no longer has Japanese citizenship and is instead just living in Japan--it was pointed out to me that he would likely not be able to get citizenship in that amount of time, which I agree with. I have also fixed the typo involving the Republic of Korea entering between Portugal and Romania at the end. The latter was a genuine mistake that was pointed out to me in a less than kind manner by an anonymous commenter.
> 
> This being said, please remember that fanfiction writers do everything we do for free, and that we appreciate respect and kindness in the comments. There are kind ways to point out mistakes, and there are respectful ways to explain when someone has gotten something wrong. Please keep this in mind as you consume my and others' work. Rudeness does not make us want to engage with the fandom. This is the first fandom I've had to make a note of this sort to in my adult life, and I'm very disappointed. Hopefully it won't happen again.


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